Almanac Life: The Campers

 

 

 

 

It started just before Christmas, when we spied a small weather-beaten Tarago unobtrusively tucked under the ti-tree at the far end of the street. As the group strolled by on our regular morning walk, the van’s presence was afforded such little attention that not one of us commented on it. After all, in the six years since we had made a point of walking daily, we had seen numerous vehicles set up camp for the night and then disappear, never to be seen again. But this time was different, for this particular van was there again the next morning. And then, two days later, there were three more campervans parked silently on the side of the road, their occupants sleeping quietly within.

 

We suspected that word of mouth about this quiet inner-city rest stop was beginning to spread because, by the end of the week, there were at least half a dozen campervans and utes huddled together in the parking bays behind the footy ground. Someone in our group had been told that this quiet stretch of road, perhaps fifty metres in length, was now featuring on camping websites, and receiving rave reviews to boot.

 

Having walked along this small backstreet for years, its familiarity meant that I had taken its aesthetics for granted. So one morning, while passing by the silent row of vehicles, I glanced over my shoulder to take in a longer and more focused look at the surrounds. In close proximity was a seldom used barbeque area, a tranquil park and, most importantly, a public toilet facility. All with uninterrupted views of Port Phillip Bay. What wasn’t to love? To both backpackers and real estate agents alike, this spot was deserving of nothing less than a five-star rating. The only surprise was that it had remained a secret up until that point.

 

One morning early in the new year, the street’s popularity reached its zenith. Merely two weeks after that solitary Tarago had first appeared, every available parking space on either side of the road was occupied. Strolling by, we counted no less than thirty-two vans of varying shapes, sizes and quality. There was one massive Winnebago, its nose poking out onto the roadway. The gaudy green livery of the ‘Jucy’ vehicles were prominent, as were the graffiti-embossed vans of ‘Wicked’. Some with tents precariously perched on roofs, accessible via a tiny ladder; many with footwear stowed beneath the chassis; a few with curious canines intently watching us through the windows as we passed.

 

Of course, any variation to the normal order of things, any change to the usual equilibrium, any thing that might look out of place, these days brings with it a backlash and faux outrage that can be found only in a local Facebook group. The pushback was fast and, in many cases, furious. One fellow was most upset that while walking his dog in the evening, he was forced to veer a couple of metres onto the verge because a group of ‘interlopers’ had set up chairs and a table on the footpath to eat their dinner. Another concerned citizen moaned that these ‘freeloaders’ were disrespectfully leaving rubbish about the place, even though my fellow walkers and I had never seen the slightest piece of evidence of this. There was no mention of the countless, and more obvious, silver ‘nangs’ left by locals in all the other foreshore carparks. This outpouring of dissatisfaction seemed to me to contain a generous helping of xenophobia. And generally, the vans would disappear during the daylight hours.

 

Naturally, the local council was inundated with complaints: something needed to be done about this makeshift camp of foreign travellers! In response, the council stated that it was not responsible for policing that particular road, although a small ‘No Camping’ sign was immediately attached to a signpost at the street’s entrance. Like the hottest of political footballs, the issue was handballed to Parks Victoria, whom the council insisted had ultimate jurisdiction over the area. A representative of this authority was sent out to investigate and, reluctantly, he issued an order to every camper to immediately vacate the area. Word must have spread like wildfire within the free-camping and back-packing communities, for the vans disappeared as rapidly as they had initially materialised.

 

As we turned into the deserted street on the morning after the last campervan had departed, I could not help but feel a little saddened by their absence. Gone were the smells of exotic breakfasts being cooked on miniature camp stoves, and no more was the sound of contented chatter in foreign tongues. Worst of all, gone was the sense that our local community was as open and welcoming as I had once believed it to be. But perhaps this sentiment was merely a microcosm of an attitude taking root on a wider scale?

 

And as for that small street behind the football ground? Every morning, the car parks stand vacant as we stroll by.

 

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

 

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